


Delirium

by libraryv



Category: War and Peace (TV 2016)
Genre: Canon Divergence from the book, F/M, Fever, Reunited lovers, Soldiers, typhus - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-29
Updated: 2019-08-22
Packaged: 2020-05-29 14:35:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19402309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/libraryv/pseuds/libraryv
Summary: Dolokhov and Clara are married; their first test as a couple comes when they are separated due to his duties as Captain. Then, a mysterious fever sweeps through the barracks of the Russian traveling reserves, stationed in London.Typical Dolokhov - this came to me, again, all in a rush. Short, but fast - and this all started because of its happy ending. (Double meaning, there. :D) The way the writing brain works! I don't make the rules - in this case, Dolokhov does.





	1. Rash

It began, as all things do, innocently. 

At first it was a soldier complaining of a sore back, or an uneasy stomach. A man neglecting his duty, begging off for the afternoon. These incidences were not concerning: aches and sicknesses were common enough complaints in the barracks.

Dolokhov was a true Captain of his men; he was rarely at his desk. Instead, he spent his time among them, training and fighting, shouting instructions and listening to all manner of worries with equal fervour. His reputation was fearsome, but the opinion in the traveling reserves, down to the last soldier, was that Captain Dolokhov was extremely tough but extremely fair. You could not ask for a better man to have your back. 

If he was not this level of involved with the daily happenings among his men, then he would have not had such an early window into events. As it happened, Dolokhov began to notice, with alarming commonality, the rise in aches and pains, the groaning of backaches and sore stomachs.

Still, it had been a cold spring, and so many of these recruits were joining the regiment fresh; youngsters unused to being away from the comforts of home.

Home. Dolokhov missed the clear, bracing frost of Russia deep in his blood. The damp English weather seemed to seep its way into his very bone marrow. Outside the barracks, he struggled with the language, the short vowels and strange words eluding him, although he understood more than he could vocalize. 

And, Clara. 

They had hoped to be in London together, but the request for him to take over the post had come sooner than expected. He had answered the summons immediately; he had not seen her for three months. She would join him in four weeks’ time. Being away from her so soon after their marriage was a serious lesson in patience, something Dolokhov was both unfamiliar and uncomfortable with. 

There was nothing to ease the ferocity of missing her, nothing to placate his desire or want. He contented himself, night after night, with images of her. She was a constant presence in his decisions, in his daily life, and he spent more time than he would ever admit, imagining the various delicious ways he would break her control when he finally had her in his arms. 

The morning had broken grey and wet, and Dolokhov made the rare decision to stay behind in his office as the men went for their morning exercises. He was leaning back in his chair, boots on the desk, eyes closed; just losing himself in a particularly pleasurable memory of Clara’s shining dark hair spilling into his hands as he stroked it away from her pale shoulders. There was a sharp knock on the door. 

Dolokhov cursed and lifted his boots off the desk.

“Enter.”

The nervous countenance of Eugeny appeared, his owlish face blinking as he gave a shaky salute.

“Good morning, Captain. It’s Andrey. He collapsed during the march.”

Dolokhov looked up, not pleased at the interruption. He had just been picturing Clara’s eyes squeezed shut, pleasure rapt on her beautiful features. 

“Well?”

“Er – apologies, sir, it’s Andrey. He-“

“Collapsed, yes, I heard you the first time. And did he get up again, or are we to be left without an ending or point to this story of yours?”

“He did, but he is, well he is quite ill, it appears. He’s in a bit of a state, we couldn’t get any sense out of him, and we had to call for the English Doctor Greenwell because Sergey cannot figure it out.”

Dolokhov’s brows drew together at this, and then he was swiftly on his feet, making his way towards the door. 

Eugeny watched his Captain leave the office so quickly he was almost a blur, and heard the older man’s voice shout up the stairs to him,

“Look sharp, Eugeny! Are you coming with me, or not?”

XXXXX

The infirmary was little more than six beds in a drafty room. Andrey lay in the farthest one, half swallowed by sheets, tossing weakly. Doctor Greenwell was standing over him, but looked up as Dolokhov strode into the room, right up to the edge of the bed.

He looked down at the younger man, whose skin was covered in a sheen of sweat. He reached down and grasped Andrey’s hand in his own, giving him a smile and speaking to him in their native Russian. 

“Doctor Greenwell has you well in hand. I am sure it is only a spring fever, and you will be back on your feet quickly.”

Andrey’s sweaty head bent into a weak nod. Dolokhov gave his hand a rough squeeze before letting go abruptly. 

“Good man.”

He gave the soldier a quick, assessing glance before turning around and walking a few paces with Doctor Greenwell. 

He hesitated, finding the English for what he wanted to ask.

“His skin – the red – the red?” He pointed at his own chest, his brain unable to come up with the word he wanted.

“Oh, it is only the warmth of the fever. In a few days he will be back to form.”

Dolokhov nodded, thinking, then spoke again, frustrated at how limited his vocabulary was. Not for the first time, he wished, desperately, for his wife.

“The men. They are complaining. Pain in the muscles, the back.”

The doctor shrugged. “No doubt from training, Captain. I should not worry about it.”

He gave Dolokhov’s hand a firm shake, and Dolokhov watched him walking away, a sense of foreboding seeping into him along with the rain. The missing word came to him then, and he spoke it aloud into the misty drizzle:

"Rash."


	2. Everything

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clara meets Dolokhov in London; they are reunited after months apart. Meanwhile, Dolokhov has sent for reinforcement from Russia, and we meet General Yaroslav.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was in my chapter outlines as a much...tamer...reunion, but I forgot what happens when I put these two alone in a room together. They're too magnetic and it's not my fault! *blushes*

Clara was meeting him in London a full three weeks early, and it was not soon enough. 

Dolokhov watched as the crowd around him churned and shifted, the London square bursting with life, the midday sun managing a few weak rays. If her carriage had made the journey within its estimated time, she would be here. He watched the fellow next to him greet a lady with a nod, tipping his hat and receiving a sedate and chaste kiss on the cheek. 

Dolokhov made his way through the crowd, not in a hurry, but feeling fit to explode. Waiting for anything was not a strength of his. 

There.  
A flash of dark hair, a determined set to the slim shoulders-

He walked forward a few paces and saw that he was right. There she was, cutting an elegant path through the tide of bodies, that familiar reserved expression on her beautiful face, giving nothing away. Men were turning to stare at her as she walked past, but she had caught sight of Dolokhov at the same time he had seen her, and her entire focus had turned solely on him.

An open, happy expression transformed her cool features, lighting them up, and he began pacing towards her, his heart pounding in his chest, the few yards between them a suddenly impossible distance. 

Ignoring convention, Clara full out ran a few strides and he was grinning, his boots eating up the last few steps. Then she was there in his arms, he was lifting her up and against him, and they were both laughing and breathless and the _reality_ of her was so wonderful that it bordered on pain.

He was crushing hot, brief kisses to her hair, her neck, her smiling cheeks, and then his lips found hers and the busy crowd around them faded into nothingness as she pressed into him. His arms tightened around her.

They drew apart, breathing hard, and he could not stop looking at her. He didn’t think he had ever seen such a beautiful sight, but he was wrong, because then she smiled at him.

“Hello, Captain.”

The pressure in his chest was easing, the weight on his shoulders from the past weeks lifting. He leaned forward and kissed her forehead.

She studied him with the clear and clever hazel gaze he had missed so much. She reached a hand up to the back of his neck, a line appearing between her brows.

“What is it?”

He laughed, shaking his head.

“I cannot hide anything from you.”

“Quite right.”

He sighed, closing his eyes, losing himself in her touch at the nape of his neck for a moment before answering. Neither of them were built for idle chatter; he wasted no time in telling her what had cost him his sleep the past two weeks.

“There is a sickness spreading among the men. I requested support; General Yaroslav was sent. He refuses to call for the army surgeon, and yet I am convinced the problem is beyond our medic.” 

"How many are ill?”

“Eleven, and we are only a platoon of thirty.”

She raised her eyebrows as she looped her arm through his and they began to walk together back to her carriage. 

“Eleven! What on earth could it be?”

“I don’t know, but I must find out if I am to turn the tide.”

She nodded, giving his arm a squeeze. They arrived at her carriage, and after Dolokhov gave her the directions to the barracks, she repeated them to the driver in such rapid English he didn’t catch it. The sound of her English was different than he was used to hearing the past months, different from the carriage driver’s. Its cadence rose and fell beautifully. 

She turned to him and laughed.

“You look very amused.”

He spoke in English. 

“The way you speak this language. Beautiful.”

They both saw the carriage driver look at them before averting his eyes forward again.

She cast a look at the ground before meeting his eyes once more, a bit of defiance in them. 

“It’s my Irish accent.” She held his gaze and lifted her chin. “It’s not considered elegant.”

He shook his head. “It is. It is –.” He shrugged, smiling, forgetting the word. He held her hand as she stepped into the carriage, and he swung himself up and settled in beside her. 

Being in such close proximity to her after so long was an exquisite kind of torture. The feel of her fitting against his side, the fact that he was close enough to see the delicate pulse at her throat; he turned his head and brushed a soft, butterfly-light kiss to her temple as he shifted in the seat, his breeches uncomfortably tight.

She grinned at him, her eyes dark with a reflection of his own need.

“How long would you say it is until we are at the barracks?”

XXXXX

Dolokhov was well aware that his reception among the men would be different when he returned with his wife. Nineteen sets of eyes flicked towards her as he and Clara came into the barracks courtyard, and he was amused to see nineteen spines straighten as they went about their various morning duties. 

General Yaroslav came forward, nodding and bowing.

“Lady Clara, it is so good to see you again.” He gave her chest an appreciative leer before directing a smile at her face.

“I have not seen you since the Officers ball in Petersburg, but you have only grown more lovely since then.”

He looked her over once more before turning his attention back to Dolokhov.

“God, I wish I were as lucky as you, Dolokhov!”

“How _is_ your wife, General Yaroslav?” inquired Clara innocently, a direct shot fired across the bow, and Dolokhov barely managed to hide his smile with a quick glance to the ground.

The General’s genial expression left his face, and he gave Clara a look of suspicion before saying, 

“As well as can be expected.”

She smiled brightly at him. 

“I am very glad to hear it. She will be at dinner this evening?”

Yaroslav turned to the side, indicating that they should go to Dolokhov’s office, and they began to walk across the courtyard.

“Yes, yes, she’ll be there, although I don’t know what you ladies will do with yourselves tonight while we army men hold a conversation!” He slapped Dolokhov on the shoulder as they ascended the stairs.

“General, it may surprise you, but ladies have the astonishing ability to hold a conversation as well. Perhaps _that_ is what we will do with ourselves.”

Clara said this as they entered the office, and General Yaroslav stared at her, open-mouthed, before turning to Dolokhov, who merely tilted his head slightly in return, waiting.

“Well, your wife is – she is - .” Yaroslav regained his composure and frowned.

Dolokhov grinned. 

“She is exactly that. Thank you for greeting us, General. I will see you later this evening.” 

General Yaroslav left the office, Dolokhov giving him a final salute and shutting the door behind him, then turned to face Clara. 

They were alone, together, for the first time in months. The silent office narrowed around them.

Clara raised her eyebrows. 

“I could see you vibrating with restrained hostility towards that unpleasant man; congratulations are in order for keeping your temper around him.”

“I keep it better when you are here to quell him so effectively with that clever tongue of yours.”

Dolokhov was looking at her; the lust in his blood had reached a critical level. Clara had taken off her traveling cloak and laid it across the back of a chair. 

“I can see how frustrated with him you are; it appears you have quite a lot to tell me.”

“I do.” He reached his hand out to her. “But right now, I only want one thing.”

He gave her a slow, carnivorous smile.

“And it is not to discuss the frustrations of my current duties.” 

She walked towards him, a playful, knowing expression on her face, and as soon as her hand was in his he pulled her close in one smooth movement against him.

The switch flipped; the forced abstinence of the past few months had paid its toll, and suddenly there was nothing between them but their own impatience.

His mouth was against hers, he was kissing her deeply, and she was willing fire beneath his touch, hungrily kissing him back, her tongue meeting his, her hands in his hair, threading and tugging and driving him mad with desire. 

He backed her up against the wall, his hands on her waist, her sides, her breasts. She was panting in his ear, soft, tiny moans that were going to straight to his groin as he thrust against her. He pressed desperate, hungry kisses on her neck, and she was lifting herself bodily into him, her fingers undoing his breeches. 

It was pulling clothes and scrambling hands and wild, messy tongues against skin as her hands found him, wrapping around his girth. He gritted his teeth as she released him, hard and ready, the skirts of her dress pulled up and rouched around her waist, his rough hands came up behind her knee but she was already ahead of him, wrapping a leg around him. He lifted her, his hands gripping her bottom underneath her skirts, and with a single, hard thrust he was inside her.

They both gasped, her head dropping forward, and he stilled, his breathing rough and uneven, the pleasure at the feel of her too great to move. Bliss was pulsing through his blood; Clara was clenched tight around him and he wanted nothing more than to stay suspended in this moment, their foreheads pressed together. 

Dolokhov moved his hips back, withdrawing slightly; they both inhaled, and he pressed forward again, Clara letting out a wanton, keening moan. 

There was sharp succession of knocks on the door.

They froze.

“Captain?”

Dolokhov lifted one hand and pressed it against the wall, bracing himself, and pushed his length further inside her, deeper, until his hip bones were flush against her.

She threw her head back against the wall with a thud, biting her lip. Eugeny’s tremulous voice came through the other side of the door.

“Captain Dolokhov, I have an urgent message? The General has sent orders.”

Sweat had broken out across Dolokhov’s nose as he began to move, pulling out slowly, and driving back in again, the slow friction an indulgent torment. Clara’s hands were scrabbling in the air at his back; he let out a ragged breath and pressed his lips to her neck before lifting it again and shouting roughly,

“I am occupied, Eugeny! You are dismissed!”

He moved again; lost in pleasure, unable to stop. Clara’s eyes widened as he began a slow and sure rhythm. She grabbed his collar, pulling him in for a kiss, and it was his turn to groan into her mouth as she started to move with him.

“But Captain! I have orders! The General-“

Dolohov gasped, breaking off the kiss, his hips still moving, Clara taking in wild breaths. Dolokhov slammed his hand against the wall against a wave of pure rapture; he would not last much longer.

“Dismissed!”

He was aware his voice was gravel, aware how strangled he sounded; he did not care in the least. He was fucking Clara mercilessly, slowly, and thoroughly against the wall; there was no stopping, both of them trapped within the imminent promise of release.

Eugeny began to recite tentative instructions.

“You are to meet General Yaroslav in twenty minutes’ time in the infirmary. It’s, um, for a meeting regarding the ill men.”

Dolokhov’s eyes were on Clara, her eyes were shut, she was taking short, rapid breaths; she was tightening around him, and she bent her head and bit a mouthful of his uniform.

“Captain?” came the voice through the door.

Dolokhov tipped over the edge of control; he could feel his own release shooting towards him.

“DISMISSED!” he roared, and he heard quick footsteps fading away down the stairs. Clara let out a wild sob, clamping down around him, and his orgasm overtook him, stunning him, and he groaned deep in his chest.

They slowed, Dolokhov still moving in slow jerks, chasing the after effects of their release. He pressed his forehead to hers, his arms readjusting around her, and she sank forward into him. 

“The look on your face,” he whispered.

“What about it?”

“I have dreamed of it, of being the cause of that expression, for months.”  
She lifted her head and smiled, her eyes dreamy.

He returned it, kissing her gently.

“I have missed you. Everything. Your expressions, your smile, your cooling of my temper,” he kissed her neck in his favourite spot.

“I have even missed your own temper, your scolding.”

She grinned. 

“I doubt it.”

“It is true! I have missed you speaking to me in Russian; I hear English all day whenever I leave these walls.”

Clara arched an eyebrow and he kissed it, glad to see the familiar expression again. 

"So your own English must be much improved - we shall have to test it."

He grinned. "What is the word for what you make me feel?" He bit her neck, gently, and she laughed, stroking his hair off of his forehead.

"Everything." Clara smiled up at him, hazel eyes gazing into his, full of love. "You make me feel, everything."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well! Can you blame them? :D
> 
> I am in full support of their fun while they can enjoy it - they are in for a rough go of things. :(


	3. Challenge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clara begins to settle into life as an army Captain's wife, and the fiery duo have words when Clara takes matters into her own hands.

Dolokhov let her gently down, her feet touching the floor, but moved his hands so they were braced against the wall at either side of her body. He gave her an indolent smile. Clara pushed his hair away from his face, admiring the handsome features of the husband she hadn’t seen in months. 

“That poor boy Eugeny is going to wonder what had you in such a temper.”

“He’ll have to keep wondering. I shall have you to myself for a few hours.” 

Dolokhov flashed a wicked grin.

Clara laughed. 

“Well, _I_ shall not be blamed for the Captain shirking his duties. Let us get sorted here, and you can answer the General’s summons.”

“I will do no such thing. I have already been summoned, and not by any General.”

He leaned forward and kissed her neck, his lips lingering, teasing.

“Fedya.”

Clara had meant to admonish, but his name left her mouth sounding like a plea. She felt him smile against her throat, and his hands began to roam skillfully over the fabric of her dress.

“Fedya.”  
This time, his name was a whimpered gasp.

Another wolfish smile against her skin; heat was blooming throughout her body. 

“Yes, Temptress?” he whispered, and she closed her eyes and lost herself to the feel of his skillful tongue.

Footsteps on the stairs again, and a very hesitant knock on the door. 

“Captain?”

His kisses traveled up to her mouth, claiming it, and he shifted closer. She was giving into it, that satisfied glow from a few moments ago was building nicely into a hot flame again, when there was another knock, sharper and stronger.

“Captain?”

Dolokhov cursed, released Clara, and took a step back from her.

“What the devil _is_ it, Eugeny? Something had better damn well be on fire!”

“The General will not take no for an answer; he sent me back again to order you to the infirmary immediately.”

Dolokhov looked at Clara, who watched, with fondness, as the stormy expression on his face competed with a bid for military control. She gave him a playful smile, and received a reluctant one in return. The better side of his nature won out, as she knew it would, and he sighed and began tying his breeches, shaking his head ruefully.

“Yes, all right, Eugeny, tell the General to meet me there. I am on my way.”

Boots retreated down the stairs as Dolokhov gave Clara a slow, languid kiss before pulling away again.

“And what is my temptress going to do this afternoon?”

Clara let out a deep breath, gathering herself and putting her fingers to her chin, deciding. 

“I am going to go for a walk; the weather is fine enough, and the carriage ride was a long one.”

Dolokhov nodded, finished the last of buttoning his jacket, and pulled it straight. 

He reached out and caught her hand, his brows drawing together.

“You have a slice against your finger.”

“Yes, I was opening letters in the carriage and we hit a particular bump, but it’s nothing. It will heal in a day.” 

He kissed the small cut and brought her to him, her body flush against his.

“Would you like a short tour on your way out?”

Clara’s own hands traveled south, causing Dolokhov to close his eyes briefly, and sway forward. She smiled.

“If you can manage to keep your cool long enough to give it.”

XXXXX

“I suppose Yugoslav sending for the doctor would be an admission that he is not on top of the situation.” 

Clara ran her fingers absently along the edge of the snugly made bed. Dolokhov had given her a cursory tour of the Russian Reserves Barracks, ending with a glimpse into Andrey’s bunk. He had been the first to fall ill, and the four men sharing the room had all submitted to the mysterious disease.

Dolokhov met her eyes.

“He refuses to send for a proper surgeon. I cannot stand his nonchalance, yet I cannot go against a higher command.”

Clara watched him move about the narrow room, restless. He stopped and looked at her, having arrived at some internal decision.

“I am their captain, and I will not let this continue. I will find a solution. But in the meantime, something must be done about the men who are ill.”

Clara nodded, reaching her own decision.

“Yes, something must.”

XXXXX

Dinner was a slow affair: General Yugoslav and his wife were, for all intents and purposes, vapid people. Clara got through it as best she could; their interlude in Dolokhov’s office earlier in the day had only whetted both their appetites for each other. He was seated across from her, and though his face was steady, his eyes were dark with lust as he drank his wine. A flash of that feeling; of him moving slowly and purposefully inside her, came unbidden, and Clara looked down at her plate to cool her thoughts.

Lady Yugolsav tittered beside her.

“My dear, you must allow me to introduce you to the best society while you are here in London. It is hardly a place for a lady, these barracks.”

Clara gave Lady Yugoslav a nod.

“I would love to attend the theatre, or the opera.”

The other lady’s features pulled a disgusted face.

“Good heavens, the opera is so dull! I think we can do better than resorting to _that._ ”

Clara looked across at her husband before answering.

“Someone once told me that the opera is passion put to music, and I agree completely. I find it passionate, and wonderful, and as far from boring as it is possible to be.”

She gave Lady Yugoslav a challenging glance, and the lady laughed. 

“My, Clara, you are opinionated. The good captain here did warn us, but what a strange creature you are!”

She smiled and put her hand over Clara’s on the table. 

“Still, I admire it. You and I will be very good friends indeed. I am sure of it.”

Her smile was full of such genuine warmth that Clara returned it, surprised. The General was beaming at the pair of them indulgently.

“Yes, Dolokhov, your wife seems to be a very interesting sort of woman. I went to perform a cursory check on the men in the infirmary later in the day and she was there, sitting and holding the poor boys’ hands!”

Dolokhov shot a quick glance at Clara at this news.

“I thought you said you were going for a walk, this afternoon?”

She met the challenge in his eyes.

“I did. Then, I thought I would make my own cursory check of the infirmary.”

Yugoslav gave a condescending chuckle in Dolokhov’s direction.

“Women, they are so contrary! It was more than cursory; she was there the for the entire afternoon, mopping sweat and cooling fevered brows!”

Dolokhov said nothing at this; merely kept his gaze on Clara, who raised her head defiantly. The rest of the dinner passed without them saying much more to each other, the general and his wife filling the evening with their own mindless chatter, neither one catching on to the suddenly chilly atmosphere.

XXXXX

When Clara came back from the Dolokhov’s bed chamber, back out into the main office at the front, she found Dolokhov sitting at his desk, staring at the various pages and maps in front of him. He looked up and saw the desire travel across his features, but it was tempered by another expression of his she knew well: frustration.

She knew he was displeased that she had spent the afternoon in the infirmary; she also knew that it was because he was worried about her.

It did not change her own, defensive reaction to the provocation in his eyes. She breathed in, then said, defiantly,

“You said yourself, we should do something to help those men.”

He acknowledged this with a short nod, then said brusquely,

“That is true. I didn’t mean for my wife to nurse them all individually back to health.”

Clara gave him a smile, but it was cold.

“And that is hardly what I was doing. I only offered those boys some badly needed comfort. They are all far away from Russia, from home. I thought I could offer them some company, some reassurance-“

“That was a mighty risk you took, all for a little reassurance.”

Clara did not quite manage to keep the smug tone out of her raised reply.

“I am fine!” She swept her hands down in front of her as Dolokhov stood up from his desk. “Look I’m perfectly fine; as I knew I would be.”

“Good God, Clara, you are not invincible!”

Clara let out a harsh note of laughter.

“Neither are you! You are allowed to risk your life with these men, are you, and I am to just sit back and watch?”

Dolokhov looked at her, green eyes flashing.

“I am a soldier!”

“Being a soldier does not mean throwing yourself directly in front of every single bullet, and that is not what I’m doing-“

Dolokhov slammed both hands on the desk and leaned forward, hissing in a low voice,

“That’s is exactly what you are doing, it’s just a different kind of battle! For you to just walk into that infirmary with all those sick men, spend the whole afternoon with them, God alone knows what sort of fire you are playing with-“

“I know those men are suffering, and if I can do something to help them, I will!”

“Listen to me, I have the matter in hand!”

“Listen to _me!_ I am not going to sit up here uselessly and demurely, sipping tea and stitching needlework! If you are able to risk yourself, then so am I!”

Dolokhov threw his hands up, angry.

“You are well aware of my position, you know exactly who you married-“

“Oh, don’t you dare play that game with me, Fedya, you know exactly who _you_ married!”

They were both breathing hard, staring at each other, green eyes flashing at hazel ones.

Clara looked away first; shaking her head angrily at the wall.

Dolokhov sighed, watching her.

There was a tense few moments; it was fire against flint.

Suddenly, Dolokhov laughed.

“Clara.”

She swung her gaze back to him, furious.

He grinned at her fondly, then spoke in halting English.

“You never fail to…you are a…”

Clara stared at him, endeared despite herself. 

“Challenge! You are a challenge.”

She arched her eyebrow, amused.

He grinned again, his green eyes soft.

“I love it. I have always.”

The charged electricity between them softened, and he held out a hand to her, shaking his head and returning back to Russian.

“I know exactly who I married.”

He raised his eyebrows.

“And you are damn right; it is not a woman who sits demurely stitching needlework, although it must be admitted, I _have_ seen you drink tea.”

Clara pressed her lips together in a bid to stop the smile threatening, but lost the battle. She smiled at him, and walked forward, taking his outstretched hand. He pulled her close against him, kissing the top of her head, and she closed her eyes as he murmured into her hair.

“I am worried. Yugoslav will not listen, and I am worried about the men. And if the same thing happened to you – my darling, fierce Clara – if I had to worry about you – I wouldn’t be able to stand it.”

Clara drew back to look at him, her eyes sparkling and sure.

“Nothing is going to happen to me.”


	4. Quickly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A night out is a temporary escape from responsibility from the barracks and the sickness, but Clara is unable to enjoy it properly.

The music swelled to a sweeping halt, and Clara curtsied deeply and elegantly to her partner. He was another young soldier: her evening had been an uninterrupted line of dancing with men in uniform. She had not stopped; had barely drawn breath. When the invitation was extended to Dolokhov’s troops to attend an English Officer’s ball, she had fairly jumped at the chance.

The sickness that had swept through the Russian Reserve barracks had badly dented morale; a night out in London society was a badly needed boost. The glowing candlelight, the ever-present hum of laughter, the dalliances being formed and broken: nothing compared to a ballroom full of people for lifting the spirits.

She took her partner’s proffered hand and returned his eager smile.

“Again, Lady Clara?”

Clara laughed, shaking her head. She must be more unused to the exertion than she thought. No one looking at her straight shoulders and bright cheeks could possibly guess it, but she felt quite worn out. 

“No, thank you. I must stop a moment.”

She smiled at the look on his face. 

“I shall promise you another one, later in the evening. A lady can hardly say no to such a willing partner.”

He nodded, and bowed over Clara’s hand as she sank gratefully into a chair. She drew her fan and waved it, her curls lifting off her forehead. Her head was aching, and the energy of the room felt overly boisterous. She had probably had too much wine, although it didn’t normally affect her to such a degree. 

She closed her eyes for a brief moment and felt someone take the seat next to her. When she opened them, it was to see Dolokhov, sitting back comfortably and wearing a flirtatious expression.

“I finished my business with Yugoslav and I happened to see a beautiful woman sitting alone at the edge of the dance floor. Now, that cannot be allowed, so I have come to persuade this woman to dance.”

She smiled at him as he took her hand in his and rested it on his thigh; she had not seen him all night. 

“I think the woman is rather in need of some air; she has perhaps danced a bit too much already.”

“That is unlike you to refuse a dance, Clara.” He leaned forward, playful. 

“Especially with me.”

She shook her head, unable, for once, to match his teasing. 

His brows drew together as his eyes roamed her face and his expression grew serious.

“You do look flushed. Yes, let’s get you outside for a moment.”

He stood and pulled her to her feet, and she took full advantage of his strong, upright form as she threaded her arm through his. She leaned against him, and saw him look down at her, frown, and quicken his pace. 

“It’s too hot in here; they have packed it full to bursting. No wonder you are not yourself.”

He was moving them briskly through the crowd. Clara was suddenly desperate for the fresh air beyond the sea of people; her headache had seemingly tripled its own strength since she had stood again. 

Faces swam before her, and the floor felt mercurial underneath her feet. She had the alarming sensation that reality was becoming unmoored around her; Dolokhov’s solidity beside her was the only thing keeping her upright. 

She had never fainted in her life, but she understood how it must happen; the edges of her vision were blurring into blackness, and the balcony doors rushed up at her. 

“Fedya.”

She had meant to speak, to say that she needed to sit down; but it came out as a half-whisper, and she turned to him, leaning against him as the room tilted sideways. 

“Clara!” 

He was gripping her with both arms now, keeping her from falling, and stormed her past the servants opening the balcony doors out into the cool evening. 

He steered her immediately to a bench and knelt in front of her, his arms at her waist, bracing her. She bent forward, barely able to stay seated, her forehead coming to rest on his shoulder.   
“I don’t know what’s come over me; it was so hot in there, and my head…my head is on fire.” The pain was building still, and it was bad; she lifted her head from his shoulder and wished the night air would cool her burning face.

Dolokhov gently felt her cheeks and her forehead, his face grave. 

“You are wickedly hot to the touch. We must get you home.”

“You there!” he called out in English to a passing servant who had just come through the doors. The boy stopped and looked at Clara’s slumped form with alarm. Dolokhov looked away from Clara long enough to issue a command.

“быстро!” Dolokhov swore, his mind searching for the English word, then snapped his fingers. 

“Quickly! I need General Yugoslav’s carriage. Then, find the General and say Captain Dolokhov must leave; his wife is not well.”

The servant nodded, eyes wide, and began to walk back towards the balcony doors.

“I said _quickly!_ ” Dolokhov shouted impatiently after him, and the young man scurried away. 

“My head,” Clara whispered again, helpless with pain, as Dolokhov turned back to her. 

“You will get home in bed and feel much better; I know it. This is nothing, my darling. It was overcrowded and overheated in that room.”

Clara had never been delicate, would have laughed at the very idea of finding a room overcrowded, and they both knew it. Yet she accepted his reasoning without question. The other possibility, brought forward by the men sick and dying from the mysterious disease sweeping the barracks, could not be allowed to push its way to the front. 

It was some kind of over-exertion, it had to be. Clara looked into Dolokhov’s eyes; those green eyes that never lied, that always told her the truth, and saw the absolute worry and doubt that filled them.


	5. My Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Going against orders, Dolokhov takes matters into his own hands.

Dolokhov was a man of action, through and through. Set him to a task and he would throw himself willingly into it. 

Asking him to wait was like asking a panther to sit down in a cage of its own making.

He paced outside the doors of the bed chamber, waiting for the barracks army medic, Lev, to finish his examination of Clara. Eugeny was in the office, watching the captain pace, his mute sympathy trying Dolokhov’s patience. 

He was entirely too familiar with infirm family members, with suffering in closed quarters, with the muffled, rending heartbreak that goes hand in hand with loved ones who are ill: his past was filled with that particular brand of misery. 

He knew sickness, could travel its map with his eyes closed. 

He had never thought it would come back to haunt him again.

The rain pounding down onto the roof was doing nothing to help the horrible drowning sensation he was experiencing. His fingers were clenching and unclenching into fists as he turned sharply on his heel, over and over, back and forth. 

Clara. She was his bright spirit, his heart-

Whatever his men had, whatever disease was preying on them all, Clara did not have it. She had never so much as sniffled in his presence; she was fine.

He was familiar with denial, too.

Lev opened the doors, and Dolokhov stormed past him to the bed where Clara lay. Her dark hair fanned out against the pillow, and her eyes were closed, her brow furrowed with pain. He got to his knees beside the bed, taking her hot hand in his. Reverently, he kissed her fingers, watching her face, but she gave no indication she was aware of his presence.

In the flickering candlelight, a dull red rash could be seen at her neck and skin visible at the top of her chest. She was not still; her slim frame was twitching minutely, and her head tossed, briefly, from side to side. 

He was breathing as rapidly as she was. His mind went back to earlier in the morning, to when he had been languidly kissing the inside of her thigh, delighting at her breathy laughter as his mustache tickled her bare and sensitive skin. Had that only been hours ago? It felt impossible it was the same day.

Lev came up beside him, and Dolokhov turned silently, feeling as if he were about to receive his own death sentence.

The young medic looked at his captain warily before saying, gently,

“Captain, I’m afraid that your wife is showing the same symptoms that the men are suffering from. She speaks of great muscle pain when lucid, a headache in particular, and she is burning up. There is that rash, you see the red spots, there.”

Dolokhov had known it was coming, but the proclamation had him temporarily speechless, the deaths of the soldiers who had already succumbed rushing in at him. The medic continued,

“She is a fighter, sir.” 

It was implied that Clara would recover, even though both men knew the odds.

Dolokhov stared at him, his voice as determined as Lev had ever heard it.

“Tell me what can be done.”

The young man shook his head; he had been out of his depth since the beginning.

“I’m only an army medic, sir, and this is unlike anything I am familiar with. I’m sure the Doctor Greenwell would know more, but I am under strict orders from General Yugoslav not to-“

Dolokhov stood up so quickly, Lev took an alarmed step back. Dolokhov turned his fierce expression toward the window.

“Yes. The General.”

He bent and kissed Clara’s forehead with such naked adoration and intimacy that Lev had to turn away.  
Dolokhov whispered something tenderly to her that the young soldier didn’t catch, then he gave Clara’s hand a squeeze before releasing it.

“Is the general in his quarters?”

“I – I believe so, sir, at this late hour he would most likely be asleep-“

Dolokhov paced past him, out through the doors into the outer office.

Eugeny snapped to attention. 

“How is your wife, sir?“

“She is suffering, just like the men, and I will not stand for this any longer.”

Dolokhov was unlocking the door.

“Sir, the weather! Perhaps, to wait until morning-“

“I have waited too long already.”

“Sir, your coat!” Eugeny gestured helplessly at him.

Dolokhov pulled the door open and rushed out of it, pounding down the stairs into the relentless downpour. He ran across the barracks courtyard and up to the door of the General’s quarters, pounding his fist on it like a man possessed. Rain was soaking his shirt, rivulets of water running down from his wet hair and streaming onto the skin at his collar. 

General Yugoslav opened the door, standing in his nightshirt. He stared at Dolokhov, wet through and face set.

“Captain! How is dear Clara’s headache, that ballroom was very warm, even my wife was-“

“Give the order to send for a doctor for the men.”

Dolokhov’s wet hair was hanging into his eyes, mad desperation was etched onto his face; he looked like a wild animal.

Yugoslav blinked, then gathered himself.

“Now Fedya, there is no need for such an expense. I know this business with the men has upset you, but-“

“Give. The damn. _Order_ ,” Dolokhov hissed, stepping forward.

“I have it under control, Dolokhov, I-“

“What you have is blood on your hands, as do I, as clearly as if we had cut those boys down on the battlefield, and I will not have Clara join them.”

Yugoslav sighed.

“I’m sure she is fine, my boy. I do not want to appear that I am ineffective-“

“I am going for the doctor. I should have long ago.”

Dolokhov turned and began marching to the stables.

“Captain Dolokhov! You are going against command!”

Yugoslav’s voice rang out into the thundering rain as Dolokhov disappeared. Yugoslav, at a loss at how to resist this storm of a man, felt uselessly inept.

“You insist? Surely you – come, man, all right, I will write in the morning, there is no need for this drastic action! Dolokhov!”

Dolokhov came back out astride his horse, black shirt clinging to his torso, boots caked with mud already, looking like a knight from hell.

“Dolokhov, this is ridiculous, you’ll fall ill yourself! I will send for Doctor Greenwell in the morning, surely there is no reason for this madness?”

Dolokhov turned his horse towards the general and leaned down in the saddle, raking the wet hair back from his face.

“She is my very heart, General. If that is not reason enough, then nothing is.”

He spurred the stallion on, the mud spattering up, and took off into the deluge, chasing down the only hope he had.


	6. Fight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dolokhov summons Doctor Greenwell only to receive bad news; Clara worsens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well we all knew where this was going, and we finally got there. Typhoid didn't have a name yet, but the symptoms would have been recognized.
> 
> I had fun going back in time with Dolokhov's memories of their life, together, though. :)

The night had just begun to give way to grey dawn when Dolokhov pulled his horse up in front of the quiet row of London townhouses. He dismounted in the twilight stillness, his determined energy at odds with the sleeping street.

He walked up the steps and knocked on the door, clearing his throat and mentally running through English words and phrases. 

There was no answer.

Dolokhov knocked again, sharply, and after another minute of silence, heard brisk footsteps.

The door squeaked open just enough to reveal the face of a young maid wearing a housecoat and a sleepy expression. Her cap was askew. She saw Dolokhov and her eyes grew round; he was aware of the sight he must make.

“Doctor Greenwell is here?”

“Aye sir, but he’s sleeping. It’s an emergency, is it, sir?” 

Dolokhov smiled, her accent was similar to Clara’s, although less refined. He nodded, and to her credit, the girl let him into the hall, turned immediately and disappeared; he supposed the house staff must get their fair share of harried family members on this doorstep.

A few minutes later and the doctor appeared with his assistant. 

“Captain Dolokhov!” Greenwell looked tired, but he was dressed and alert.

“How are your men, all over that spring fever, I hope?”

“It is bad, doctor. Some dead.”

“Pardon?”

Dolokhov looked into Greenwell’s shocked face.

“Five dead. My wife is sick, also.”

“Your wife? I did not know you were married-”

“You must come with me.”

Dolokhov had no time for English pleasantries, but he didn’t have to worry; the maid had returned with the doctor’s bag and coat, and Greenwell was already nodding and issuing rapid orders to the assistant, walking back towards the door. 

_Good,_ thought Dolokhov. Bringing the doctor to Clara was not a solution, but it would give them an answer.

XXXXX

Doctor Greenwell stood up from examining the young soldier, shaking his head at Dolokhov and the General.

“Infectious fever. I often see this type in army barracks, close quarters, that sort of thing.”

Dolokhov waited for his brain to absorb the rapid English, catching enough of it for his worry to rise. _Clara._

The doctor continued.

“It’s an ugly one.” He looked at the bewildered Russian captain's face. 

“Bad,” he clarified. “Very bad.”

Dolokhov needed no translation for this, and he closed his eyes briefly.

“My wife.”

Doctor Greenwell sighed; he had known, eventually, that this is where they were headed.

“Show me.”

They left the infirmary, Dolokhov leading the way, leaving Greenwell’s assistant behind with Yugoslav.

They reached the captain’s quarters to find Eugeny asleep at the desk, head resting on forearms and drool pooling on a map. Dolokhov led the doctor through the doors into the bed chamber. Clara was awake, sitting up, and hope surged cruelly in Dolokhov's chest. Perhaps it was-

But as he strode over to her, he saw the red bumps had spread, and her normally clear eyes were glassy as she regarded not him, but the doctor standing at the foot of the bed.

“Good morning. You must be the Doctor Greenwell that my husband has wanted to send for.”

The doctor raised his eyebrows; he had not expected such fluid English.

“I am. Your husband came to my door a few hours ago, soaked to the bone and demanding that I see his men. And his wife.”

“Then you must see it would appear that I have fallen victim to the same illness.”

The doctor walked closer; even sick, he felt instinctively that this beautiful woman was not one to be lied to, or one to mince words with. He gave her a cursory look, but he could clearly see she was right: she had the same fever.

“It appears you do, and I must tell you that this fever is a rough one.”

She said nothing, merely held his gaze, her cheeks flushed.

“You will succumb to a very high temperature, and there is quite a bit of pain. It can last for weeks, before...”

She nodded slowly, then lifted her chin, and asked a question that came out as a flat statement.

“Will I die.”

Doctor Greenwell hesitated, and it gave him away.

“You might live. It is not impossible.”

“But not likely.”

The man looked at Dolokhov, who had been following the conversation with great attention, then back to Clara.

“Not likely, no.”

Clara’s hazel eyes brimmed red for a moment before she looked down at the sheet, then lifted her head. She reached for Dolokhov, and he gripped her hand, far too tightly, he knew, but she had strength in her yet; she gripped tightly back. 

She smiled up at him, that fierce determination that he loved so well, and it went straight to his heart as she spoke.

“Then I will have to fight very hard indeed.”

XXXXX

At first, Clara held on so tightly to control that it was hard to tell how seriously ill she was; she smiled brightly at Dolokhov, teased Eugeny and Lev cheerfully, and asked about the other soldiers’ health. She sat through the doctor's visits and questions, rarely admitting to the pain they all knew she must feel. 

Doctor Greenwell couldn’t help but admire the woman’s steely resolve; he hoped privately it would serve her well when the fever claimed her.

And slowly, as the days of the week went by, it did.

Her flushed cheeks became pale and dull, and her glassy eyes lost focus entirely. Her clear words became incoherent ramblings and disjointed pleas for water. She didn’t know faces or people, and lay writhing and shivering in the bed.

Through it all, through every moment, at her side, was Dolokhov. He slept in snatched patches, he ate hurriedly, wolfing bites down between daily visits to the infirmary and his men. He was worn ragged, and as Clara worsened, so did he; he refused to leave her. 

When Doctor Greenwell came in one evening, it was to find Dolokhov sitting at the bedside, reading out loud to Clara’s still form in gentle, musical French.

"Good evening, Captain." The doctor gave him a nod and felt Clara's forehead, frowning. Dolokhov shut the book and watched through bleary, sleep-deprived eyes.

"She is still feverish."

The doctor nodded, leaning down to listen to her heart. His solemn brown eyes looked pained.

"Captain, you must...you must prepare for a turn for the worse. Her heart has slowed. It is common, before..."

Dolokhov stood up, shaking his head, and strode to the window, looking out at the courtyard. He stood proudly; shoulders straight, but the doctor had grown to know how much this commanding man loved his wife.

"Captain, I know this is hard to hear, but-“

“I understand.” Dolokhov interrupted him, holding up a hand, a defeated expression on his face.

Greenwell nodded, and turned to leave.

“I will be in my quarters, if you need me.”

He left the room, and Dolokhov resumed his solitary post at Clara’s side, waiting and watching, as the night closed in.

XXXXX

_“It so happens that your reputation precedes you this evening, Officer Dolokhov.”_

_Hazel eyes in the most beautiful face he had ever seen, focusing on him with breathtaking intelligence and clarity. The most openly frank and assessing gaze he had ever received from a woman, and it changed the course of his life._

Clara’s eyes were shut, squeezed tightly, her eyelashes wet with unshed tears and sweat. He longed for them to open, to see her meet his gaze.

Please, he thought, his fingers clutching the edge of the bed, twisting in the wet sheets. _Please._

_“I am here to tell you that I love you, and that I am free to do so.”_

_“Fedya.” Clara’s voice was clear as ever. “I love you.”_

He watched as she mumbled, her fingers twitching and scrabbling at nothing, and he reached out and caught her fingers loosely in his own, listening to Clara’s eloquent voice speak fever-tinged gibberish, her mouth moving with unintelligible, rasping sounds.

 _Don’t take her,_ he bargained desperately. It was beyond prayer, beyond coherent direction, it was simply his soul speaking into the night, into the edges of the candlelight.

_A kiss made of cool mint and snow, a moment of complete bliss as both their frustration and pride, their arguing and fire, gave way to indulgent passion. A shadowy alcove, his raging, voracious lust, then a firm push away as his own medicine was served ruthlessly back to him, and the curious realization that for the first time in his life, he was falling in love._

Her lips were cracked, and flaking; he took the cloth from the basin next to him and gently squeezed it, sending a trickle of water onto the webbing of bleeding on her lips.

_His heart hammering, Aleks’ hand on his shoulder as Clara walked towards him in white lace, casting him a radiant smile, her face glowing._

_A sense of surety, of knowing that he was a man done for, a man whose actions would be guided by hers, until he drew his last breath._

His eyes studied each patch of red bumps he could see, at her neck, her wrists, her chest. He hated the sight of them, hated each and every one of them, stealing her life and vivacity.

_Her body as she stood before him on their wedding night, her skin a white, silken, flame. The desire taking him over, the want and need he had, all the blood in his body leaving his brain and traveling, shooting, towards his groin. Her teasing laugh as she looked over her shoulder at him, flirtatious and knowing, and it just about brought him to his knees. Instead, he brought her to the bed, and there was the slow tracing of his tongue all over that lovely skin, her teasing smile lost in a rush of passion. His determination to take his time, her beautiful, breathless panting as he savoured each lick and swirl against her core, and then the unhinged moan escaping her as he pushed himself into her, her hips thrusting up against him._

Clara moaned, and he looked up, but it was an awful, choking sound, and ended on a rattling husk of a breath.

“Clara.”

Dolokhov spoke into the stillness, more of a command than her name.

“Fight,” he said, in her native English, clear and direct and into her ear. 

"Fight, Clara." He watched her fluttering eyelids, her chest that rose shallowly and slowly.

“You must fight, my- ” he said again, but his voice caught and broke, and he leaned forward, unable to keep himself upright, his forehead resting against their clasped hands, silent, gutting sobs wracking his frame. The inky black night surrounded them, and Dolokhov felt entirely, completely, alone.


	7. Stop

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clara's situation is dire. Dolokhov reaches his breaking point, but support comes from an unexpected place.

It felt like hours, but it was only minutes: Dolokhov lifted his head from where his hands were wrapped around Clara’s. Her fingers were cold, but he was so attuned to her breathing, and – yes – her chest rose again, although it was with a shallow, painful, breath.

He heard footsteps; he quickly cleared his throat and shook his hair back, squinting into the room towards the door, which creaked open.

Doctor Greenwell came in, giving Dolokhov a nod.

“How is she faring, captain?” 

He said it as a courtesy; he walked towards the bed and lifted Clara’s wrist, frowning. He leaned forward and listened, again, to her heart.

An expression came into his eyes, then, and Dolokhov felt an intolerable tide rising, a future so bleak and horrendous he had not entertained its existence, until Greenwell looked at him. 

“Has she any family?”

Dolokhov gave a single nod. Greenwell sighed, and Dolokhov wasn’t sure which was worse; the wave inside him, still rising, or the look of sympathy on the other man’s face.

“Captain.”

Greenwell’s gentle tone had Dolokhov’s teeth on edge. 

“I would – I would write to prepare them-“

The doctor’s unfinished words hung in the air. Dolokhov had a rough grasp of English, but no command of writing it, and the thought of outlining a letter of Clara’s death was overwhelming in more ways than one. 

He pictured Clara’s father and brother; their eyes with the same laughing spark as hers, and imagined telling them their daughter and sister had died. That the spark had gone out. 

Greenwell was watching him. 

You must have suspected this; I’m afraid Clara will not-“

Dolokhov stood abruptly, although he had not let go of Clara’s hand.

“Stop.”

“No, but-“

“Stop.” Dolokhov shook his head. 

“Captain, you must see reason, you must begin your preparations-“

Dolokhov let go of Clara’s hand; suddenly, he couldn’t be here, he couldn’t be in this room, couldn’t watch her take one agonized, suffocating breath after another until she ceased breathing altogether.

He strode past Doctor Greenwell, ignoring his astonished expression and stammered protests. Marched into the outer office and past the soldier standing at attention outside the door, ignoring the quick, “How is she, Captain?”

He flung the door open, into the cold air; it was a sudden drop in temperature, and Dolokhov relished it. He thundered down the stairs, free, the frigid early morning stinging his cheeks, a frozen balm to his fiery heartbeat.

He paced the empty courtyard, then halted suddenly. The wave of hopelessness crested; he staggered as if drunk. He thought of Clara, of her struggling and failing to take a last breath, and his own chest heaved. 

He was gasping for air; he couldn’t stand it, he could stand anything but this: he fell to his knees, the wet stone seeping into the fabric at his knees, and he let out an injured roar, a yell ripped from his lungs; a wound made of sound.

He was clenching his fists against the pain flooding through him. He was losing her, he was losing her, and it was unbearable.

“Captain!”

The voice reached him as if from underwater; he turned his head and surfaced in slow motion. 

“Fedya!”

The voice cutting through the courtyard was familiar; it was a Russian accent. 

The stranger was dismounting, speaking in ringing, firm tones to the soldier who had come up to greet him and take his horse to the stables. For a moment, Dolokhov was not sure he had heard right, but then the warm voice caught him again, and it was a single piece of home that had come alive.

“Fedya! Is that you, roaring out here at the crack of dawn? I meant to surprise you and have you wake up to news of my visit, but instead I find you howling like a wounded animal, on your knees in the yard! What have the English done to you?” 

Mikhailoff walked over to him, grinning from ear to ear and capturing him in a hug. The strong arms and warmth, the life and vitality coming from him, was shocking to Dolokhov, who felt, for the second time that night, tears prick the side of his eyes. This time, though, they were brought on by pure relief as he listened to his friend’s steady, cheerful stream of chatter. 

“I thought I’d surprise you! I was in Paris, knew you were busy running things over here in London and thought I would come see that gorgeous firebrand you get to call your wife. And spend some time visiting you as well, I suppose.”

Mikhailoff laughed, his brown eyes dancing, but then he stopped as he pulled back from their embrace and looked at Dolokhov. 

Mikhailoff’s brows drew together in slight alarm. 

“My god, you look like a ghost! What has happened, here?”

“Aleks, I can’t begin to say how glad I am so see you, brother, but – Clara. She fell ill, and-”

Dolokhov controlled his voice well enough, but Mikhailoff saw immediately how serious it was. He squeezed his hand on Dolokhov’s shoulder, his face shocked.

Dolokhov reached up and grasped Mikhailoff’s hand.

“Come, I have mastered myself. I must go back to her. Come with me to my office.” 

No sooner had he turned to go back to his quarters then the door upstairs opened, the young soldier beckoning wildly.

“Captain, the doctor says to come quickly, sir!”

This was it, then: the moment he had been preparing himself for. Mikhailoff nodded at him, and Dolokhov turned and began ascending the steps back to his quarters, determined to face his fate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I needed something (or someone) to loosen the mood and reflect the turning point, so along came Aleks. I was just as surprised as Dolokhov, but it was sure good to see him! :D


End file.
